Wrong Chance (23 page)

Leonardo gave Aspen an uncertain look. “I'm afraid to ask.”

“Then mind your business.”

“Should we get him off the floor?”

“No, leave him be.”

“I don't think I'm cool with this.”

“Mind your
fucking
business.” Then: “Did it register that time?”

He removed a pack of chewing tobacco from inside his Stetson, then readjusted the hat on his head. “I don't feel right leaving him here like this.”

“Look, dammit.” Aspen rolled her eyes; her nostrils flared. “He's going through some things. None of which is any of your damn business. He hasn't been sleeping so he needs this rest. Furthermore, if I say leave him the fuck alone, then leave him the fuck alone.”

Her outburst didn't sway Leonardo either way. “Would this have anything to do with—” He gestured to Hakeem's desk. “—why his picture frames are turned faced down?”

“What you need to do is find out why you Denver boys are so incompetent. You need to find out why you assholes didn't have a clue the killer has been talking to you the whole time.” She gestured to the fax in his hand. “On each of the Denver victims the killer wrote about the sacred rights of animals. What you need to do is find out what the fuck this has to do with animals so we can catch this psychopath.” She lit a cigarette. “That will suit my temperament, Detective, because this not minding your business bull-shit is rubbing me the wrong motherfucking way.”

“You sound more like his woman than his partner.”

“That ain't none of your damn business either.”

L
eon Page had a terrible habit of waking up with a hangover. Coupled with cirrhosis, it was enough to cause his life to be a painful living hell. Leon developed this despicable characteristic of alcoholism after he watched his partner get murdered in the line of duty and was too pussy to prevent it from happening. He'd just stood there frozen in fear while a golf club-wielding, cigar-smoking female lawyer split his partner's head open.

This Monday morning, however, was slightly different from all the other mornings he'd woken up after learning he was a coward. Today he had a nasty hangover; the cirrhosis was more painful than usual; he was still pissy drunk;
and
he was sincerely worried about Jazz. And to punctuate his issues, his cell phone wouldn't stop fucking ringing, amplifying the intensity of his hangover with each ring. He couldn't recall last night's events or how he'd managed to make it back home to his sofa with an empty bottle of Bacardi clutched in his hand. Leon closed his eyes, straining to remember anything that would validate his worthless existence.

And the damn phone continued to increase the volume of his hangover.

He sat up way too fast and his inhuman apartment started spinning. He settled himself against the sofa's back, dug his dirty fingertips into the cushions on both sides of him, and held on for the ride.
When Leon's miserable world slowed to a reasonable pace that he could function in, his gaze landed on the Glock 23 sitting among the clutter of his coffee table.

And the phone rang.

He dug the annoying thing from his pocket. “What?”

“Leon,” a muffled voice said, “you look like shit.”

•  •  •

Chance, clad in an HVAC uniform, a curly wig, and a pair of sunglasses with built-in binoculars, stood on the rooftop of a downtown office building. He removed a Phillips screwdriver from the tool belt slung low on his waist and made a show of tinkering with a ventilation unit while watching Leon through the window of his low-rental apartment in a high-rise seventy yards away.

He whipped his phone out after amusing himself with Leon's discomfort and punched in the number of his next victim.

Eight rings later, Leon said, “What?”

“Leon, you look like shit.”

“How the hell would you know what I look like?” Leon said, trying to place the voice but drawing a complete blank.

“ 'Cause I'm looking at you.”

“Who's this?” Leon stuck his tongue out and turned the Bacardi bottle up until the last drip leaked onto his tongue.

“That's a nasty habit you got there.”

“Who is this?” He staggered to his sixteenth-floor window.

“Doesn't matter.” Then: “Guess what?”

“Do I get to buy a vowel? What?”

“You die next.”

Leon did something he hadn't done in a year of Sundays—he sobered up. Instantly. “You'll only be doing me a real favor, you
asshole. Alimony, my liver, Bacardi, and child support has already killed me.” Leon glanced at his watch, 7:42 a.m. “Call me back when you got some bad news for me.”

•  •  •

Leon hung up on the anonymous caller and thought about Jazz again. His thoughts compelled him to pick up the gun from the coffee table, figuring he'd make amends to Jazz for all the damage he'd done and make life simpler for everyone by driving a bullet through his brain. When he checked the clip in preparation of his suicide, he noticed a bullet missing—the same bullet that would have saved his partner's life if he'd had the guts to fire it sooner. In an instance the memories of his disgrace came rushing back as if it happened only hours ago.

He and his partner, Kirt Gilchrist, surrounded the cigar-smoking attorney with tactical precision. She held a golf club over her head. Sizing up her prey. Ready to strike like a seasoned predator. Leon, a rookie Hoboken, New Jersey, cop, stood behind the attorney with his gun drawn. Sweat inched down his forehead, headed straight for his eyes. Leon wanted to wipe the irritating sweat away, but he couldn't risk taking a hand off the gun.

She gnawed on the hundred-dollar cigar, swaying like a cobra.

Officer Gilchrist had said, “Ms. Daniels, you're under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder for financial gain.”

She grunted. Smoke pouring from her nose. Pure defiance in her eyes.

Officer Gilchrist reached for his gun.

“Put. The. Club. Down!” Leon had said, as if he meant business and wasn't to be fucked with.

Before Officer Gilchrist could free his gun from its holster, she
slammed the golf club into his wrist, crushing the bones with ease.

Leon froze; his feet rooted to the ground.

Within seconds, she struck Gilchrist again and split his skull easier than she had his wrist. Gilchrist was a corpse before his body hit the ground.

The arrest was supposed to be simple arithmetic: Serve the warrant. Secure her. Mirandatize the suspect. Deliver her to the county jail to be processed and await arraignment.

But Ms. Daniels had other plans. She spun around and squared off with Leon. She sucked in a thick cloud of smoke. “Always thought it would be the cigars that took me out.” She lunged at Leon with the bloody golf club.

Leon thawed and pulled the trigger. As the bullet tore into her heart, Leon remembered Yancee's, his college buddy's, warning:
One day, Leon, I swear your hesitation to do the right thing is going to get someone killed.

Four hours after Leon had frozen, he explained the events that led to Gilchrist's death to the department. Now all he needed was to relieve some stress. What better way to do it than to go home and punch out his wife?

J
azz cried out. “My baby. Please stop, Leon. You'll make me lose the baby.” Heavy moans of deep pain leaked from her battered body. She lay on their bedroom floor, trembling, still feeling the sting of his fists; still hugging her stomach to protect her unborn child from another violent blow. This was the first time he'd drawn blood since the night he violently took her virginity. This was the first time he made his abuse visible to the naked eye.

Leon paced the room like an aggressive caged animal. “I told you to get rid of it. Every time I turn around, you do something to make me hit you.” He kicked her in the belly as he passed her.

“Oh God,” Jazz cried out. “My baby. You're hurting my baby.”

“Get up so I can knock your ugly ass down again.” Then: “Told your ass to get rid of it.”

Jazz hugged herself tighter.

“I said get up, dammit!” He snatched her to her feet by her hair, then backhanded her to the floor again.

“I'm sorry,” she said, spitting blood. “I'm sorry, Leon.”

He kicked her and the baby again. “You know what? I'm gonna show you I ain't to be fucked with.” He dragged her from their bedroom, dirtying her sparkling white jeans. He shoved her through the house and into their indoor garage. “Told you to stay off the phone. Think I wouldn't see the long-distance charges? I brought you here to keep you
away from the dregs of your family. Them people don't love you. Only I do.” He pushed her into the front seat of his brand-new 2005 Mercedes-Benz CLS550—courtesy of her latest royalty check—and slammed the door.

Jazz watched through the windshield as he ranted and raved, pacing. He disappeared from her line of vision. She was in too much pain to move, too afraid of his fists to try something daring to save her and the baby. She felt something warm and sticky between her legs. She glanced down and saw her crotch spotted burgundy.

The trunk slammed closed; Jazz flinched. Leon slid into the driver's seat, hit the automatic garage door opener, and backed out into the night. The clock on the dashboard read 3:22 a.m. Jazz wondered where he was taking her.

“I'm having a miscarriage. Take me to the hospital. Please, Leon. Please help me save my baby.”

He pound on the steering wheel. “No one helped me save Gilchrist tonight when that bitch mashed his head in. No, honey, you don't need a hospital where you're going.” He cut a hateful set of eyes on her.

It only took twenty-two minutes from the time they left home before they pulled onto a dirt road that winded two miles into an unkempt wooded section of Count Basie Park in Red Bank, New Jersey.

Leon threw the car in Drive. “Get out of my car.”

When her swollen eyes adjusted to the darkness, she took in her surroundings. A dense knot of oak trees in the middle of…nowhere. “You're gonna kill me,” she said in spite of a busted lip.

He reached across her lap, opened the door, and shoved her to the dirt road. “I said get the fuck out.” Before he climbed out, he took his throwaway .32 caliber pistol from beneath the seat. He then removed a spade shovel from the trunk and threw it at Jazz's feet.

The shovel and its implication horrified Jazz.

He put the gun to her head. “Pick it up.”

Through the pain and fear she did as she was told. By gunpoint he forced her deep into the woods to a clear patch of earth.

“Tonight we end this,” he said with no feeling or inflection. “Dig.”

The thought of her digging her own grave made Jazz give up. “I can't do this.” She threw the shovel down as the October chill cooled the sticky fluid between her legs. “You want me dead, then kill me, Leon. Just do it. Dammit, do—”

He fired a bullet that whizzed by her head and left her ears ringing. “Honey, I'm serious. I advise you to pick the shovel up and dig without further procrastination.”

She pushed the shovel into the earth and pulled out a rich chunk of soil like she used to do while helping her mother plant a bell pepper and tomato garden on a stretch of inherited land on the countryside of Maryland.

“Whatever I did to you, I won't ever do it again. Just tell me, Leon, and take me to a hospital.”

“Don't stop digging until it's deep enough,” Leon said. “I don't want the black bears and coons to smell you rotting and dig you up.”

“I feel my baby dying, Leon. I swear I won't call my mother again. I swear.” She pulled out another chunk of earth. “Take me to a hospital, please.”

“Shut up whining and dig, you bitch.”

“Eric will look for me.”

“And I'll bring him out here and bury him beside you.” Then: “You think I don't know your agent wants to fuck you?”

It took Jazz the better part of two hours to dig a grave in her condition suitable to Leon's liking. She stood in the hole, shivering, gazing up at him through tear-filled eyes.

“Hand me the shovel.”

She was in too much pain and too exhausted to do anything other than comply.

“Now lay down.”

She didn't budge.

Leon said, “I'll hurt your mother and let you carry that knowledge into the next life.”

With her back against the cold earth and a dead baby in her belly, Jazz cried and screamed, “Kill me. Just kill—”

He threw a shovelful of dirt on her face. “If I ever have to speak to you again about anything, mark my words, this is where I'll leave your black ass.”

I
mpound lot. Now Hakeem worried that Yancee's Camaro wouldn't turn up any evidence that would identify the unsub or put them any closer to nailing the bastard.

He and Aspen watched as criminalist—with emphasized caution—loaded the Camaro onto a flatbed truck. Five days into the investigation and nothing made sense. None of the facts matched. The nation's elite profilers pegged the murders on a white male. Scratch witnessed Yancee with a stunning female of undetermined race a few hours before the time of death. “Maybe she was white or mixed or a fair-skinned sista,” as Scratch had described her. DNA evidence collected from the crime scene belonged to an unidentified African American male.